That's All I Wanted, Thanks
by Fanless
Summary: Carcer gets impolite. Vimes is not amused. Swing sees the whole thing. Carcer has an alarming dream.
1. backalley shenanigans

Vimes felt the breath on the back of his neck, nothing more—no sound; damn, the bastard was _good_. He wheeled, pinned his would-be attacker to the wall by the neck, heard a little chuckle: _hey, all in good fun, eh?…_

"What do you want, Carcer?"

"What's any man want, Duke, haha?" The demons sneered, pleased with their own wit.

"Don't mess me about," Vimes growled. "I've dealt with you twice already. It's been a long day and I don't want my work following me ho—back from work, I don't want a fight, I don't want anything except a cigar and a cuppa. Bugger off." He released Carcer more roughly than strictly necessary.

"Oh, I don't think so just yet, Mister Vimes." Carcer stepped closer. Vimes preserved the space between them and hit the other wall. This had to be the smallest alley in The Shades. "I got something for you. Something I figure we wouldn't want our men to see."

Visions of silver cigar cases floated behind Vimes' eyes. "Yeah? Hand it over and hop it. I'm sure you've got important things to do for the Particulars. Places to go. People to torture."

"Nah. This's better."

Vimes didn't care for the look in Carcer's eyes. It wasn't the usual devilment; something a little more complicated, though no more pleasant. "Give it to me, Carcer."

"Give you what, Mister Vimes?"

"Dammit, Carcer, I'm warning you—"

"You really want what I got, Mister Vimes?"

"Stop playing, Carcer. I won't tell you again."

"Well, all right, haha, if you're sure…"

Vimes held out his hand, expecting to feel the weight of his cigar case in it. Instead he felt dry, callused fingertips against his palm, grabbing and sandwiching both his hands together. Then the man's other hand was at the back of his neck, fingers twisted in the hair that wanted cutting—Sybil wanted him to let it grow, but he'd always been more comfortable with the-shorter-the-better—Carcer's feet were on his toes, Carcer's body was pressing him into the bricks, Carcer's mouth was on his.

Vimes' mental processes screeched to a halt.

Everything seemed to have gone black and ringing. The lips against his were cracked and rough, insistently devouring again and again, murmuring words that didn't reach his ears. His toes were going numb. The heat from Carcer's hand was unbearable; sliding slowly down his neck, down his spine—

His brain whirled back into action. Knee up, hands then head forward, and Carcer was stumbling back trying to clutch his skull, stomach, and groin simultaneously. He made an unusual keening sound.

"Do me a favor, Carcer," said Vimes from the alley entrance through gritted teeth. "Next time you want to _give_ me something, make sure it's your wrists in cuffs."

And he was gone.

"That didn'tseem… to go well," said a voice from the shadows, punctuated by the rattle of a cane.

"Shut up," said Carcer, too busy wiping tears from his eyes to be surprised.


	2. helluva dream

For the talented and wonderfully prolific **duchess-susan**, who actually told me that the world needed a little more charming-psychopath/hard-bitten-policeman sexual whatsit. (Not in those exact words, of course.) Apologies for the total lack of development since you gave it a look-over; I knew I'd never come up with anything more, so I added one sentence and called it good. Such is the glamour of the written art.

* * *

He hadn't intended to get serious about it.

It'd started as a whim, a passing thought: old His Grace so uptight you couldn't slip a fart between his teeth, wouldn't it be fun to _really _set him off? Only question is: how? Cos it's hard as hell to get a rise out of the man for real, everyone knew that. Vimes was a fortress of propriety. What _wouldn't_ he expect? Man like him was pretty secure. Rich, powerful, married.

Married.

Hmm.

Man like Vimes, unpopular pretty much all his adult life— who'd ever heard of him before the dragon thing?— gods knew how he'd managed to get himself a woman, probably still pinching himself over his luck. He'd probably never even consider someone else, say, being attracted to him. Very conspicuously, say. In public, say. Like an attractive young seamstress— no, that would cost more money than Carcer had on him, and while it would be so easy to get more, why bother? The wife wasn't around to see it and keep the trouble rolling. It'd just solidify his cred with the wets at the Watch house too, probably. And who'd be willing to make a move on Keel, let alone Vimes? Who'd be willing to do it just for a laugh—and, preferably, for free?

Well. . .

Dad always said: if you want a job done well, do it _yourself_. . .

* * *

The Duke of Ankh's lips were rough and weathered under his own, the rest of him doing its best impression of the brick wall it was pressed against. Carcer reveled in the brief, oh very brief gasp he'd elicited. He could feel the back of the man's neck incandescing, the sweat beginning to trickle down Vimes' back; snickering, head ringing with the high of success, he reached _lower_—

Of course Carcer ended up with a boot in the nadgers for his troubles, but even _that _was funny after the agony faded from white-hot to a dull brownish glow. Just the reaction he'd expected. Well done, Mister Vimes.

It was absolutely hilarious until Carcer woke up in the middle of that night from a dream in which he'd pinned Vimes against the linen of a cheap brass boarding-house bed, straddling the man's bony hips and running the tip of his tongue down every scar decorating that battle-worn body—a dream you could fry eggs on, and a reminder of it you could use to crack the eggs.

After that he thought for a while. Carcer's mind was like a shark's: singly-focused, cool (except when it turned red) and rarely used for much, outside of planning ways to kill, not _be _killed, eat and fuck. Deep personal contemplation wasn't high on the list. But now he sat in bed, combing somewhat-greasy hair off a definitely-sweaty forehead, and pondered.

Had he liked it, touching Mister Vimes that way? Well, in the dream, _yeah_, but that didn't mean much, did it? He'd had a dream once in which he'd entered the church and spent a fulfilling and peaceful life as a priest; _that _was hardly grounded in reality. Carcer wasn't bothered by the implications. He'd lived in the Shades too long to think of sex as anything but something gotten whenever and however you could: like a hot meal, or a bath if you were the tidy sort.

And it _had _been an damn long time.


End file.
